


The City Holds My Heart

by kavekavekav



Series: Hope Is A Heartache [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - No Main Quest, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Self-Medication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavekavekav/pseuds/kavekavekav
Summary: Hancock’s life flips upside down, on a lazy, unremarkable afternoon, when a Psycho-doused, doe-eyed Vault dweller shows up at the gates of Goodneighbor clutching a rusty 10mm pistol in his trembling hand, stepping over late Finn’s body before the bastard gets half a chance to properly stiffen.Well, Hancock did say he wanted a change, now didn’t he? Guess, he just wasn’t quite sure what he was in for.TL;DR Yes, it’s Hancock’s POV of the first part, but not a complete re-telling. Some scenes are expanded, some are added, you get the drill. Can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: John Hancock & Sole Survivor (Fallout), John Hancock/Male Sole Survivor
Series: Hope Is A Heartache [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712839
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	The City Holds My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> The series' title is taken directly from LÉON’s song, ‘Hope Is A Heartache’, (surprise) check it out it’s so fckn good. I wanted to keep all titles somehow consistent but damn this song you guys it’s magical.
> 
> Fic’s title from a song by Ghostly Kisses. 
> 
> Okay, so now that I wrote this, I am not actually sure about the idea. We’ll see how the next chapter goes though.

Hancock itches. And for once it has nothing to do with him being a ghoul. The throb goes beyond his skin; that clawing, persistent restlessness that has him perched on the edge of his seat ever since he came crawling back to Goodneighbor. Sure, he was glad to be home, taking care of his mayoral duties, catching up with the locals, drinking at his bar, and all that jazz. But... The longer he stays holed up in his office amidst the clouds of smoke and stale booze, the more his mind screams, urging him to jump to his feet, take the stairs all the way down, and get the hell away from here. And it gets twice as bad when he’s sober.

Fahrenheit calls it pathetic, and she might be completely right. Hancock’s way past the denial phase to freely admit that the constant need of hitting the road has less to do with the traveling itself and more to do with... Well, the company. 

It’s kind of funny, he has to admit, that he’s once thought nothing could surprise him anymore, but look at him now. Strange how a ghoul can spend years stuck in his ways only to make a hundred and eighty-degree turn in the span of months like it’s nothing. 

Not to derogate Nate’s social skills, meager as they are, but Hancock never, in his wildest dreams - and he had plenty of those to share with a generous spare left - expected a vaultie to be the conduit of that change. And not only because they rarely survive long enough to reach the city, even nowadays when all the main roads are patrolled by the Minutemen militia.

But Hancock got lucky. And after he had drunk enough vodka to finally accept that the 'crush' wasn't a crush at all, he got used to chasing the high as far as it would take him. And Nate knew his way around the block, and then some.

The downside? The mayoral life was never exactly a party - except when it was - and the logistics of it Hancock's been always more than happy to dump on someone else's shoulders. Foregoing modesty, Hancock's good at his job, even though it bores him nearly to tears at times. But now, after having a taste of the life so far away from what he once had craved... It’s so much worse when he knows the alternative can be so damn sweet.

Even the usual simple pleasures ceased to look that inviting anymore; the lounging on his couch for hours on end, three sheets to the wind, higher than Trinity Tower and twice as fucked up. The urge to drink the days away passed irretrievably somewhere between last fall and this year’s spring when he stopped popping pills to kill the time and started getting his buzz somewhere else. 

The first hit is a bliss. Past the gate of Goodneighbor, the whole world lies open before them. Or, more realistically, the Commonwealth and its borders. Either way, it’s there, free for the taking. And the high is so worth the hassle. Staying huddled up for warmth by the fire, strangely domestic, sharing a narrow mattress, squeezed so tightly it’s hard to determine where the first body begins and the second ends, then waking tangled in each other, never quite close enough, tearing away with a pretended nonchalance. Then comes the withdraw, creeping inevitably on the way back, settling like a stone, weighing him down.

“Hancock?”

Ah, and there it is. The other downside to the life of a Mayor, inhabiting a body of an ex-raider turned Triggerman rookie, the newest patsy of Eager Erni. What the boy's lacking in the intelligence department, he compensates with a misplaced sense of superiority. Needless to say, he's oozing self-confidence.

“Mhm?” Looking away from the window, Hancock’s head halts mid-way turning to his associate, caught by a gleam of light dancing at the rim.

Weird. He hasn’t noticed that before, but now that he does he’s completely sure that something is very wrong with his glass. The whiskey isn’t leaking, so there aren’t any cracks, but the way the surface gleams unevenly is, to say the least, distracting. Rotating the glass Hancock slides it across the armrest a little too forcefully. The leather squelches like crazy, the liquor sloshes over the brim and splashes on his fingers, but he gets exactly what he wanted. In the new position, the light falls on the whole cup equally, and there, Hancock’s suspicion is confirmed; the glass is chipped.

“Hancock!”

A shout and a not-so-muffled snort snatches Hancock out of his consternation and back to the present. “Yeah?” He asks, glancing at Fahrenheit, who in turn, is pointedly watching their guest.

The Triggerman blinks back, eyes showing a hint of unease for the first time since he entered the State House, ruining Hnacock's afternoon. Once the wannabe thug is sure he managed to secure Hancock's attention, he clears his throat and repeats, “like I said, Ernie’s good for it. You just gotta give us one more year.”

“Mhm.” Hancock sucks the whiskey off his fingers, taking his time. He taps the glass, picks at the cavity, then flickers the rim with the tip of his pinkie getting out a dull twang in response. When he's done playing around, he turns back to his uninvited guest, a lazy grin plastered to his face. “How ‘bout no?”

“I-- What?”

Is this guy for real? “Ya heard me. It ain't happening.”

The thug gapes like he has trouble understanding the words. Surprising, since he was so damn cocky a moment ago, running his mouth like a chatterbox, too loud for Hancock to filter out, though God knows, he tried.

“I thought--”

Oh, he’s starting to catch on, that poor bastard. But what he’s not aware of yet, is that Hancock knows  _ exactly _ why he’s here, what Ernie sent him for. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots between Ernie’s recent drop in sales, and Goodneighbor’s new purveyor of all things chem-related. It’s always about caps, with those guys.

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, man.”

That shuts the guy straight away. Not for very long, unfortunately. 

"You gotta be like that, huh? Have it your way." The gangster’s face twists into an ugly grimace, a wide smile full of black, crooked teeth. "Ernie said you might want to reconsider.”

Triggermen and their big words. “Yeah?” Hancock snorts. “Shoot.”

“We have a mutual friend, you see? I bet you know ‘im.” He pushes himself up the chair, reaching a hand to the top of his head, then a little to the side, indicating the height. “Ye high? One of Marowski’s.”

In a flash, Hancock’s muscles spasm. The cracked glass digs into the meat of his palm, but it’s a distant sensation, blurred in the back of his mind. “What’re you sayin’?” He barely recognizes the voice that comes out of his throat. The last time he had the pleasure of hearing the raw growl was right before he hanged Vic by the neck from his own balcony all these years ago.

“Just that it’d be a shame,” the Triggerman goes on. The grave he’s digging himself reaches past his ears now and keeps on expanding. “If something happened to him on one of his runs. It  _ is _ a dangerous place, after all.“

“Oh, no,” Fahrenheit grins, eyes gleaming with unhinged amusement. Though she was perfectly fine watching the exchange, she doesn't seem too bothered that the show is nearing its end. “No, you didn’t.”

But he did. He so fucking did.

The guy’s scream pierces through the room. Hell, they probably heard him down the street as well. It’s the mix of hard alcohol and shards of glass straight to his eyeballs that have him singing so loudly. Hancock glances at his hand; the one he was holding his cup in is now strangely empty.

When the Triggerman falls on his chair, or  _ with _ his chair, more like, Hancock hooks a foot around the wooden leg and sends the whole package toppling to the ground. The guy tries to move, but he’s not nearly fast enough. The next kick meets his head, right under the jaw, and he bounces on the panels like a little yellow ball.

Hancock unsheathes his blade, spinning it in his fingers in a single long motion. There’s nothing he wouldn't give to introduce his knife to the fucker’s face more intimately, but killing a messenger isn’t a very civil thing to do. He consoles himself with watching Fahrenheit knock the guy around, finally stopping his squirming with a boot to his back.

Having had enough of the spectacle, Hancock begins, “Didn’t I tell Ernie what’s gonna happen if he keeps pushing me? ‘Cause I sure thought I was bein’ clear the last time I saw ya, huh?”

The thug whimpers, wiggling on the ground and mewling like he didn’t just threaten Hancock’s best friend in the same breath. “L-look, Hancock, you-- Argh!”

Fahrenheit has even less patience today than she does on average. She stomps on the guy’s arm, just in the right angle to break it in two different places. The resulting shout is higher than the last one, clearer too, like music to Hancock’s ears.

“Why don’t you scram back to the Downs and remind your owner to watch it?” He snarls when the guy finally shuts his trap to heave a mouthful of blood. “Think you can do that for your old pal?” With a quick slide, and not caring about the answer, Hancock returns his knife to its place as a sign for Fahrenheit to let the man loose.

The Triggerman bolts. One moment he’s sprawled on the floor in a graceless heap, the next he’s out of the room like his ass is on fire, without as much as ‘goodbye’. Hancock has to laugh at that, it’s impossible not to. He lets out a chuckle that quickly breaks in the back of his throat when he hears Fahrenheit speak.

“Vaultie.”

Before Hancock can even fully react, his heart treats him to a ghoul equivalent of a somersault. That’s to say, it drums a little less sluggishly than it usually does, halted by the radiation and all the medical stuff which Hancock never cared to learn. His mouth goes slack and judging by Fahrenheit mocking scowl, he makes a nice impression of a fish, eyes wide and beady, out of his element. He gets his bearings admiringly fast, however, and when he turns around he’s almost positive that all the traces of surprise are wiped clean off his expression.

Nate stands in the doorway, hair sticking up on one side like he’s been running his hands through it, which he does when he’s stressed or working, so all the damn time. Hancock doesn’t have to come closer to know how he’ll smell like; a metallic hint of rust-steeped water, white soap, and dried plants. All prim and proper despite the pale spatters of blood still seeped through the threads of his stolen trousers.

“Sunshine.” The endearment out of his mouth before he can stop it, along with a smile Hancock can’t bite down.

Mirroring the greeting, Nate’s lips jump up at the corners, rearranging his expression into sight far too sweet for a man who can kill an opponent with a well-placed punch. At the sight, Hancock’s traitorous mind brings him another image to consider. He wonders, briefly whether Nate would taste like toothpaste or vodka if he were to check for himself. 

He expels the thought as fast as he’s able, breaching the distance and coming to a halt a step away from his friend, resting his hands on Nate’s shoulders.

“You wanted to see me?"

Nate doesn’t seem distressed, so it’s fair to assume he didn’t hear that much of the Triggerman threats. Besides, Fahrenheit would have said something by now. Which she doesn’t. She just picks her weapon and goes on her merry way, grumbling to herself, but readily granting them some resemblance of privacy. Bless her soul or whatever.

Hancock’s eyes fall on Nate’s fingers, stained green from the herbal juices. His skin and nails are meticulously cleaned, though his clothes bear the evidence of his recent visit to the Memory Den. “Sure did,” Hancock says, brushing the dried chunks of red paint off Nate's jacket, half to help clean him up, half because he can't keep his damn hands to himself. “Working hard, heh?”

“Don’t I always?”

The thing with Nate is that Hancock can’t fully tell if he’s being a tease on purpose, playing a long con of stealing Hancock's sanity one could-be-flirtatious comment at a time, or if he genuinely doesn’t realize what effect his words have on Hancock’s heart. For all Hancock knows, it could all be innocent. Well, let’s be real, it definitely is. A man like Nate hitting on a ghoul like Hancock? It’d be a cold day in hell.

But because Hancock is a weak, weak man, his arm finds its way around Nate’s shoulders, nesting him in. “Been doin’ rounds?” Of course, he was. He insists on doing them himself no matter how often Hancock tries to persuade him otherwise. “Why don’t you take a breather? Relax a little.”

“Oh?” Nate's eyes gleam like polished marbles, like pools of purified water and Hancock wants to fucking drown in them.

“I am thinking whiskey and Jet.” With a quick pat to Nate’s back, Hancock breaks the contact a tick, least he’ll lose his common sense completely and cross the line more than he already did. “How ‘bout that?”

“Make that Med-X and I am in.”

Predictable. But Hancock has an ace up his sleeve. “I’ll do ya one better, brother. Come on up.”

Hancock’s never been more glad of the tidy state of his room than when Nate drapes himself over his couch, the red one that accentuates the heat-rush to his cheeks after one too many drinks. For someone matching Hancock's appetite for liquor, Nate’s truly easy in his cups.

Searching for the right bottle takes thrice as much time as it should, and it’s only because Hancock gets distracted by the patch of smooth, unmarred skin just above Nate’s pants, where his shirt has ridden up. After it falls back into place Hancock spends the next five minutes reading the labels before finding the one he was looking for.

“The good stuff,“ he says, showing off a bottle of today’s proverbial poison. If his voice comes out breathy and tight it could be easily written off as excitement. He picks two glasses, makes sure none of them is  _ chipped _ and begins fixing the drinks; neat for himself and a mixer for Nate. He keeps the proportions three to one, making it more of a cocktail than an actual shot, but taking Nate’s alcohol  _ tolerance _ into account, it’d be more than enough to knock him off his feet. “There ya go.”

Their fingers touch when Hancock passes Nate his glass. Maybe it’s accidental on Hancock’s part, maybe it isn’t, Nate doesn't seem to notice it, either way, staring at the beverage like it’s the last serving of water and he’s a hermit stranded on a desert.

“Thank you,” he says, ever the gentleman, before taking a big swallow. His face turns a lovely shade of red as he sputters, shortly after, hiding his mouth behind the palm of his hand.

“Whoa, slow down, brother.” Hancock bites his lips to stifle a laugh, securing the glass and putting it away. “Rough day?”

That fucker Marowski, if Hancock had to guess. He’s a bitch to deal with on a good day. The grimace on Nate’s face serves as a confirmation and Hancock reaches into his pocket, ever the savior, to fish out a little pick-me-up he bought from Wolfgang with that purpose in mind. “Look what I got ya.”

Nate’s eyes widen into two, perfectly rounded saucers, and the noise he makes goes directly to Hancock’s dick. He stares at the small jar of Day Tripper placed on his thigh with a single-minded focus. His lips part just a tiny bit, and his tongue darts out, in a slow, wet slide that makes Hancock want to take a long, ice-cold shower.

Other than that, Nate’s a right picture of a child on a Christmas morning, making quick work of opening the jar and laying one of the small, blue pills on this tongue. Hancock’s never been an opiates’ man himself, he strongly prefers his Mentats, but he can get behind Day Tripper seeing the immediate effect the chem has on Nate.

“Take your time,” Hancock mutters, low enough not to shatter the moment, sliding into the empty spot on Nate’s right. He could watch Nate like that for two days straight, no breaks; the slow rise of his chest as he breathes, the long shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, the fall of his eyelids over his huge, blown up pupils. “I need to finish a few things but I’ll be done in an hour or so,” Hancock adds, in the same tone, reclining against the back of the couch to get a better look. “Why don’t you wait for me here?”

Nate hums, as though he's weighing his options. He appears to be down with the idea, but a quick shake of his head contradicts that. “I need to stop by Cabots’.”

Right. Cabot’s horror mansion and a walk down the memory line. As hell Hancock’s going to let Nate deal with that particular nightmare alone. He doesn’t need to ask about the reason for such a trip. It’s been more than half a year since Nate took the last serum, and while he does have a spare hidden in the bottom of his safe, he’s less jittery when he’s properly stocked up.

Hancock gulps his whiskey down, sloshes the liquor in his mouth before swallowing. “Alright. We can go.”

"We?"

If Hancock's hands weren’t busy holding his glass, he would have shrugged. He opts for a low sound that hopefully conveys his sentiment. “When do you wanna go?” He asks, then chugs the rest of his drink and places it back on the table. “I am down wherever.” It sounds eager, too eager for his liking, and he tries to water it down by acting all casual and folding his arms behind his head. There, all better.

“After the nightfall, I suppose.” Nate doesn’t take long to think about it. He’s peculiar like that. A creature of habit. Not that Hancock can complain; his preference made it extra easy to replace McCready as Nate’s traveling companion since the kid has no stomach for nightly adventures. That wuss.

Hancock smacks his thighs, as one does, ready to cement the deal before Nate starts to overthink it. “S’good then. We’ve a coupla hours yet.” He says that, though the moment he does, he notices the shifty grimace of Nate’s face.

“I promised Codsworth I would visit Daisy.”

Hancock’s one hundred percent sure that they’ve talked about it last month. And the month before. “That’s ‘bout the Abraxos again? Come on, I told ya, I can get your robot a crate of those.” It’s admirable, sort of, how independent Nate is given his situation. And more than a little annoying. You’d think having a friend who  _ runs _ the freaking town would matter to him at least a tiny bit, but Nate doesn’t seem to give half a fuck about it the whole thing.

“You’ve done enough for me John, I can’t ask you for stupid shit like this.”

And  _ that _ lands like a freaking blow below the belt. His name, in Nate’s mouth, just comes out differently. Rolled over his tongue like candy, like it means something. Not the way ‘Hancock’ does, definitely more than ‘McDonough Junior’ ever did.

“It’s important to you, so it’s important to me,” Hancock mutters back, because what there is to add. It does the trick, and Nate visibly deflates. He’s been preparing for an argument, knowing him, and when it didn’t come, it left him winded. He’s already flushed from the alcohol, but his cheeks turn a shade darker. “If you put this that way. Thank you.”

“I’ll tell someone to haul it over.” Luxuriating in his victory, Hancock sprawls himself further on the couch, propping his legs on the table, shamelessly stealing half of Nate’s seat, even though the bigger part of the couch stays empty. He fishes a Jet, acutely aware of Nate’s eyes following his every movement. “Tell you what,” he drawls, grinning like a shot fox. “Why don’t I ask Fahr to postpone our meeting a bit?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence,” is Nate’s answer, right off the bat. His words lack the intended conviction, however.

The image of a holier-than-thou, doe-eyed vaultie is plausible, at a first glance. Hancock’s been deceived by that face more often than he’d like to admit. But he’s a good sport, so he plays along. “You couldn’t be if you tried, sunshine.”

And tried he did, especially at the beginning, biting far more than he could chew. Some of the fights he’d win by himself, with the help of liquid courage or his chem of choice. The others, well, Hancock has it on good authority, the number of shitty things people can turn a blind eye on after the Mayor asks them nicely enough.

“It’s nothin’ important anyways. Trade stuff,” Hancock allows, huffing the words out in a heap smoke. He doesn't elaborate, doesn’t needs to, Nate’s not interested in that sort of politics anyway.

“I am sure Fahrenheit would disagree.” It’s a subtle jib, and to an onlooker, it might appear that he is undecided, but his fingers curl eagerly around the inhaler when Hancock takes it on himself to share it.

“Don’t you worry your pretty, little head ‘bout it. Just let go, will ya?”

It’s not like Nate needs to be sweet-talked into a chem break, still, Hancock pushes their thighs together, both as an encouragement and a personal indulgence. Pressed this close, he feels the exact moment Nate gives in; he goes lax, and in minutes, he’s slumped over Hancock’s arm, stretched like a cat on a heater.

The mix of Day Tripper and Jet makes him incredibly mellow and peaceful, but also uncharacteristically touchy-feely. He’d probably be embarrassed about the way he acts under the influence. Good thing he rarely even remembers it.

“Good?”

“Mhm.” He hums, hair falling over his eyes as he ducks his head, shy like he wants to be closer but doesn’t want to ask. And who’s Hancock to deny him?

“Come here.”

Shifting, Hancock eases off the couch to make some space for Nate to lean over his legs. He doesn’t have to wait at all to get a lap-full of long-limbed, sharp-boned Nate. Once he is comfortably seated, Hancock gives in, brushes the stray locks behind Nate’s ears, then slides a hand around his back, pulling him closer, until he's lying with his cheek on Hancock’s shoulder, melting into a pile of goo.

“You’re so fucking warm.” His breath is scorching, puffing on the expanse of Hancock’s throat, his lips brush over the tendon as he speaks, drowsy and lethargic, already half-asleep.

“Yeah?” It’s good, incredible, fucking phenomenal. Better than the chems, though Hancock wouldn’t be caught dead saying that out loud. “It’s all yours, sunshine.” That’s what he traded casual sex for; Nate’s body, limp and placid, fitting just right, the intimacy a pair of stranger’s hands could never offer. Could never come close to. “All yours.”

He’s not sad, he isn’t. If that’s all he can have from Nate, then it’s more than sufficient. So what if he has to watch as he disappears in a hotel room from time to time, never alone. It’s not like Hancock hasn’t been doing the same exact thing before the thought of having someone else touching him began to curdle his insides.

It’s just... It’s better, when they’re on a run, outside of the town, just the two of them together. Like there’s nothing else for them, but each other.

The shuffling of combat boots in the hallway brings Hancock's mind out of ht gutter. The racket grows closer, and when the door opens without a knock, Hancock knows who it is right away. “Fahr. Hey,” he raps, peeling his eyes open, not sure when he has closed them, using the hand that’s not currently buried in Nate’s clothes to give her a weak wave. “Guess I ain’t gonna make it to the meeting today.”

“You don’t say,” Fahrenheit dead-pans, keeping her voice down. She stares him down for a long moment, one hand propped on her hip. “That’s not why I am here.”

“Okay?”

“I spoke with Marowski,” She spits the name as a curse, choosing an expression to match. “He claims to have no idea about Latimer’s plans, but he’s  _ willing _ to cooperate”

Willing. What a riot. Not that Marowski has a choice. At the end of the day, if he wants to hold his seat, he has to play by Hancock’s rules. “Sweet of him.”

“That’s what I said.” Fahrenheit’s amusement schools down into the usual neutrality that other people read as antipathy.

“What ‘bout Ernie?”

Fahrenheit shrugs. “Nothing yet.” She palms the doorknob, then hesitates, one foot past the threshold. “I’ve heard you’re leaving.”

Uh oh. “And where did ya heard that?”

“The butler’s babbling that his ‘sir’ is going for a walk.” Fahrenheit’s chuckle turns sharp and knowing.

“So you assumed I am comin’ with him?” Sitting here, arms filled with sleepy Nate, Hancock’s in no position to grow a backbone, but damn if he’s going to take it lying down.

“Just get yourself back in one piece, alright?” Fahrenheit’s expression is more amused than anything, but there’s also that flash of something dangerously close to worry in her eyes, as she closes the door, on her way out.

“Alright,” he says, to her, to himself. Though, for some reason, it feels like he’s lying.


End file.
